Darkness
by Tiger's Stripes
Summary: Two siblings, sent together to fight for their lives. One arena, harder than any of the tributes would have imagined. One chance to live. Sara is up against 22 tributes, with only her brother. This is the 30th Hunger Games. And it WILL be unforgettable.


**Okay, so the way I came up with this is kind of weird. So basically, I was at a debate tournament, and between rounds, my friend was reading The Hunger Games, and I started reading over her shoulder, and then I started thinking about all the arenas I'd ever read about on both and out, and realized I had never seen a particular arena. I hope you like this! By the way, I can SEE the number of hits I get. So why don't you review? I'd really appreciate it. No login is required. I would really like about 1 review per chapter, but that's not necessary. It would just make me happier. Thank you!**

The mockingjay on the branch above me tilts its head as faint strains of music drifted through the air. With a look of pride, it hops down to my branch and sings Ella's four-note tune, the one signaling that we're done for the night.

Feeling relieved, I give the apple one last twist, feeling it break cleanly off the stem. I step down a few branches to place it in the basket, and then wrap my hands around the wicker handles and lift with a small grunt. Up and down the rows and rows of apple trees, others are finishing their work, too. Maybe they're sneaking an apple or two to feed themselves and their families, desperately hoping they won't get caught and suffer lashing or even death. But that's how we all live around here. Resorting to things we shouldn't do, just to survive another night. It's no way to live- sneaking around under the noses of the Peacekeepers, just to put an ounce of food in our stomachs.

As I push the apple into my boot, it's all I can hope that no one catches me. Jordan asked me to bring back something for the groosling stew, and I know he'll be able to make something good with only a few scraps of tough meat and an apple.

"All right, District scum!" The head Peacekeeper, Eliza Joseph, shouts. "Go home, and don't be caught with anything you shouldn't!"

Nervously pulling at the hem of my weather-beaten leather boot, I begin the long trek home through the winding, sandy streets of District 11. Sunset has fallen, draping the scene in vivid shades of orange, temporarily brightening the scenery. Then, the sun disappears behind the tall walls and velvety darkness encompasses me. The street is already quiet and still as a graveyard. Every house I walk past features closed shutters and an air of terror.

But why wouldn't they?

Considering what tomorrow is, I'd certainly rather shut myself in my room without a sound and wait for it to be over. But it isn't an option.

When I walk up to the front door and push it open, my brother Jordan stands at the tiny, wood-burning stove, stirring something that smells delicious. He gives me his typical, "hi, Sara. How are you?" His voice is quiet, but I don't give it much thought. Instead, I pull the apple out of my boot and present it to him. It's big and juicy, if not a bit bruised from its ride home. His brown eyes brighten and he takes it from me. With a few swipes with the small knife in his hand, the apple is cored, cut and tossed into the pot.

"Groosling stew?" I ask.

Jordan nods, "I thought you'd like it."

Jordan hasn't gone to work in the fields since he was nine. A Peacekeeper shot a gun beneath the tree he was climbing, and he was startled and fell out, injuring his leg and preventing him from working. So he just cooks for us. We both live alone, since a District fire killed Mom and Dad four years ago. It works. I sneak food, Jordan cooks it, and we both help the other stay beneath the Peacekeeper's radar. Those sacs of fat don't ever do anything but feast on our harvest and shoot our rebels.

I turn my attention back to Jordan, who is ladling the stew into two crudely carved wooden bowls we made from discarded tree branches. He hands one to me without a sound and I raise the bowl to my lips, sipping the warm, sweet broth gingerly so I don't burn my tongue. Outside, it has begun to rain, pouring torrents down on us and ripping at the rag-filled walls of our little house. I shiver and quickly drain the bowl. "I'm going to bed now," I announce. Jordan nods.

"Good night," he tells me, "sleep well."

"You, too." I stand up and walk through the doorway that leads to my room. Actually, I think it was once a walk-in closet when someone wealthy—well, as wealthy as you can get in District 11—owned it. My bed is a palette on the floor, made of old blankets and straw. I curl up underneath the warmest one and let the rain lull me, but not put me to sleep. I'm far too nervous to fall asleep. But a day of working in the fields has taken its toll, and I eventually find my eyelids drooping until I am asleep.

"Get up." Jordan shakes my shoulder, "we have to go soon."

I groan and sit up. Of course. It's reaping day. Most Districts have theirs later on, but ours is at 9:00 AM, so that the Capitol doesn't miss anything. I dress quickly in a relatively nice ankle-length dress made of soft fabric. It was mom's, before she died. Jordan is already dressed in a plaid shirt and clean jeans. His sneakers are grubby and old, but some things can't be fixed.

We walk towards the center of District 11, where crowds of children are already being herded into the pens. Jordan signs us both in, hand shaking nervously, and then I am sent to the pen with the rest of the 13-year-olds, Jordan with those who are 17. It seems we are some of the last to arrive. Soon, the mayor of our District, whose name I don't know, steps up and begins the long, boring speech he's made as long as I can remember, talking about the Dark Days, and the rise of the Capitol, and 13's obliteration, blah blah blah. I lose interest somewhere around, "we owe our lives to the Capitol, because…" and stare off into space until the robotic, forced clapping of the audience brings me back.

Next to take the stage is the eccentric-looking Milli Glacier. With her ice-blue eyes, fluffy, bright blue hair, and pale lavender tattoos stenciled all over her body, it's hard not to laugh at her. "Time to pick the contenders, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" she squeals in the typical, ridiculous Capitol accent. On the table in front of her stand two glass balls. My name is entered 14 times, for all the tesserae I signed up for. Jordan's is entered 79. Still, the odds are for us. District 11 is the biggest of the Districts, so I'm none too worried as Milli raises a gloved hand. "Ladies firssst!" She calls, the trilled 's' giving her a serpent-like hiss. She plunges her hand into the bowl and pulls out a name slip. Instantly, I feel a stab of pity towards whichever girl is picked. She steps up to the microphone and reads the name out. It takes a moment to register, but I feel the terror hit my chest as I realize she's just read my name out and that _I _am the one everybody else is to pity. With trembling steps, I make my way forward up the stairs until I stand on the stage, looking out at everyone around me. I know there will be no volunteers. My palms are sweaty and I feel like I'm going to faint, so I focus my attention on Milli, who is reading out a different strip of paper, this time for the male tribute.

"Jordan Reed!" She calls out.

The feeling that comes next resembles what one would feel if someone stood on their chest. I cannot breathe. I cannot think straight. All I can do is stare at my brother as he ascends the stairs to stand next to me. It is the first time. The first time two siblings have gone into the arena together. But he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as every camera crew trains on our faces. We are siblings. District 11 tributes. And at the best, the odds are only in one of our favors.

**Well? Don't just stand there! Go review! I will also be having a contest now. If you review with a guess at the arena (Crane, you're not eligible) and get it right, I'll write a one-shot about your favorite character/tribute from the FIRST Hunger Games book. You are disqualified if your review only contains the guess and no review content. As was said earlier, flames make me laugh, concrit helps me out, and compliments make me happy. Please, please review!**

~Tabby


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